Once More, with Feeling
by ravynechyylde
Summary: "You're not one of those deviants the imam warned me of, are you?"
1. Admonition

Altair is not too surprised to see Malik and an _imam_ emerge from the small mosque situated off the main thoroughfare of Masyaf's village. His rival enjoys debating history and morality with the holy man, though Altair wonders what purpose it serves. Neither is likely to convince the other: the _imam_ has devoted his life to his god, and Malik is… simply Malik, clever and stubborn and immovable as a rock for as long as Altair has known him.

He is, however, confused by Malik's shuttered expression, focused inwardly and oddly pained. The _imam_, dressed in his muted black robes and head covering, appears to be chastising Malik, who only nods quietly. They both look startled as he approaches; Altair is used to unnerving other people, but Malik has known him too long to be disconcerted by his mere presence.

"Take care, _assassyun_," the holy man intones with an air of finality. "Your skepticism, bountiful as it may be, will not protect you, and once is enough for Allah." He regards Malik with resignation, and Altair imagines they have had this argument countless times. "And you," the _imam_ turns to him, bushy eyebrows lowered in warning. "Even the likes of you may be led _further_ astray by heretics and deviants. _Jihad_, Allah forgives." He looks Altair from head to toe and back up again. "Those who practice _liwat, baccha, shirk_ are beyond redemption."

With that pronouncement, the _imam_ inclines his head respectfully to Malik, who returns the gesture. "Allahu Akbar ," he murmurs, appearing younger with his grey hood drawn back and stripped of his usual contrariness.

Altair watches the priest pass in front of him, waiting until he is out of earshot to ask Malik, "Is there any reason for the warning against fucking men, selling children into slavery, and worshipping other gods?" His eyes continue to follow the _imam_ until he is lost to sight.

Now Malik snorts, and Altair feels some of the tension ease. "You seem the type to need the warning." The two journeymen begin the trek back to the fortress, their feet tracing the familiar path without thought.

Altair is not satisfied with this answer but bides his time. "I have gone this long without the crutch of religion," he remarks. "I am unlikely to start believing in god now."

"And what _do_ you believe in, Altair? What allows you to make the leap of faith?" Malik asks sardonically, as though he already knows the answer.

Altair shrugs – is it not enough that he makes it every time? "I don't know. Myself. The Creed." His words ring hollow, because he has never needed anything to believe in. He is given a command, and he simply obeys; Al Mualim has chosen his favored instrument wisely.

Not for the first time, his words make the younger assassin think of the _malaikah_, without free will but free of sin as well. In general, Malik feels it to be a poor trade; right now, with the words of the holy man ringing in his ears, it seems a bargain. "It seems you stand at a precipice ." Malik smiles slightly. "I must take care, lest a single misplaced word drive you to a life of depravity."

"You're not one of those deviants the _imam_ warned me of, are you?" Altair means it to be a joke, but his wry laugh gets caught in his throat when Malik stops just outside the main courtyard of the fortress and turns to him, an odd intensity in his gaze. The darker man raises his hand to Altair's breast under the pretense of brushing away some invisible dirt.

"Oh, I am even worse." That warm hand lingers over his heart, and the feel of it makes heat pool in his belly. Malik's eyes appear fathomless, so that Altair might fall into them if he does not take care. "I take pleasure in all the unspeakable things I do." Altair inhales sharply, and the spell is broken: Malik withdraws his hand quickly, leaving a chill in its wake, and strides into the courtyard without looking back.

Altair gazes after him for some time, fingers rubbing the same place on his chest as if soothing a burn. Even after Rauf hails him from the ramparts to come in for the evening meal, he cannot forget the shadows in Malik's eyes or the scorching heat from his hand.

Perhaps the _imam's_ admonition was not misplaced after all.

_~~~  
malaikah -_ angels


	2. Interlude I: Malik

"Five times every day," Faheem tells his young son. "Five times is all that Allah asks of you, to prove that you are faithful and obedient." They sit on the ramparts of the Masyaf's fortress, watching the sun rise, warm and golden. Assassins are, by training, early risers, but the castle walls are still quiet at this time of day.

"Yes, _aba_," Malik says obediently, then asks after a moment, "but what if I am in the middle of a mission?"

"Then you must perform it later in the day."

"Ah." Malik attempts to ask another question before his voice cracks slightly, making him blush as his father gives him a rare smile. "And when must I start?"

"You are becoming a man, Malik," Faheem responds with a note of melancholy. "You will start reciting _salah_ today, and I will help you remember each _rak'ah_ until you are able to say them all correctly."

"What happens if I forget to say it once?"

His father raises an eyebrow. "Already contemplating disobedience?"

Malik quails a little under that stern look, but continues, "I only want to know in case Kadar asks me."

"Some say those who miss a prayer are infidels," Faheem says after a moment. "Others say they are capable of being redeemed." He looks sternly at Malik. "But _salah_ – performing it and _believing_ it – is the difference between the devoted and the damned."

Malik is nothing if not detail-oriented, and Faheem is reminded of this when his son pipes up once more, "So, between the Creed and Allah… who is my final master?"

Faheem does not answer immediately, drawing Malik towards him. "You will have to decide for yourself, _ibn_," he says quietly, "I am only providing you with the tools to make that decision." Faheem regards his son's owl-eyed expression with approval. "Now let us begin."

Malik remembers the feel of his father's arm around his shoulders, like the weight of his own soul, the first time he foregoes _salah_ after an exhausting day of training and another frustrating exchange with that attractive idiot Altair. _Just this once_, he thinks to himself as his eyes shut of their own accord.

That is the night before his mission to Solomon's Temple, and it will be a long time before another _ra'kah _passes his lips.


	3. Interlude I: Altair

Altair, like most children, loves fairy tales about fantastical beasts, epic battles, and normal men who become heroes. He is almost too old for them, but he can still coax the occasional story out of one of the washerwomen, an elderly widow from the village by the name of Ni'ja. Though she would never admit it, he reminds her of her grandson, long since taken by Templar invaders.

Bloodthirsty and brash like the other boys his age but isolated from them by his unusual lineage, Altair enjoys the stories of battle the most. He is usually able to get through only one such tale until his questions become too blasphemous for the stern Ni'ja to handle and she shoos him away to return to his solitary existence once more.

She tries to inject a little more fear of Allah into this heathen with the unsettling amber eyes by telling him of the _djinn_, magical creatures that inhabit the pages of the _Qu'ran_. Altair can't quite wrap his mind around these creatures of smokeless fire, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

"If you dropped a _djinn_ into water, would it hiss and sputter like heated steel?" he asks Ni'ja.

"How would I know these things?" she demands of him, snapping the water out of a white assassin's robe. Altair is momentarily distracted as he imagines himself wearing such a garment one day.

"I don't know," he shrugs. After a moment of deep thought, he asks, "What happens if a _djinn_ touches me? Would it burn my skin, or would it pass deeper, through my bones?"

Ni'ja shakes her head in despair. "Ai-ya! How do such thoughts come into your head? If you see a _djinn_ coming towards you, don't stop and think about how hot his hand is – just run!"

"Why?" Altair asks with the fearlessness that comes from innocence – or ignorance.

"It's likely up to no good!" At his blank look, she sighs. "They are one of the three sapient creations of Allah, born after the _malaikah_ but before mankind. Like humans, they have free will, so they can choose to embrace Allah or choose to sin, as did _Shaitan_."

"And the _malaikah_?"

"They are the divine angels of Allah. They cannot sin."

"Huh. Do _they_ have free will?"

"They have no need," she says sharply. "They follow the will of Allah, as should we all." Altair doesn't look terribly impressed, and Ni'ja murmurs a quick prayer under her breath for him.

"If I should I ever meet a _djinn_," he says proudly, puffing his chest out a bit, "I wouldn't run. I'd trick it into becoming my servant."

Ni'ja snaps a towel at him, expertly clipping his ear and making him yelp. "If you can't handle an old crone like me, you'll be no match for a _djinn._ Now be off with you, I think this towel may need to be wrung out _again_."

Having no desire for a matching sting on his other ear, he scampers away, still contemplating what he might do if he comes face to face with a creature of fire and malice.


	4. Revelation

'Blessed' as he is with introspective tendencies and nothing but time as the _rafiq_ of Jerusalem, Malik has replayed that scene in front of the fortress a thousand times in his mind, not sure what possessed him to bare himself to Altair in such a way. But there was no disgust, or even indifference, in those amber eyes, but curiosity.

So when he sees Altair, supposedly humbled but still able to clear a path on the streets of Jerusalem with his familiar swagger, all the impure thoughts he still harbors rush forward like a tide and, as he has done before, he promises himself, _Just this once._

"What news, novice?" Malik has to admire the restraint Altair shows, the only sign he is caught unawares a minute tensing of his shoulders. He does so enjoy needling the other man.

"Malik," he says, voice laced with irritation, before turning around to take in his dark blue robe. "Pardon me. Safety and peace, _dai._" Altair manages to make his new rank a demotion.

"Empty words as always," Malik responds airily. "Learn what they truly mean before you wish them upon another."

"Ah. I thank you for the lesson." Altair sounds anything but grateful. Malik watches how his eyes linger uneasily on the pinned sleeve where his left arm should be, and he thinks this hostility is not so insurmountable.

As they have done so many times before, they fall into step with each other as Malik leads them both back to the bureau. People move out of their way, deference in their eyes, and Altair reflects on how easy it is for people to see what they wish: a humble priest and a soft-spoken scholar strolling through the market, surely arguing over some point of divinity. He wonders how they reconcile his bracers and shoulder guards, or the bandolier of throwing knives visible under Malik's blue robe. But the complacency of the masses has always suited his purposes, and he lets his thoughts drift to the man beside him.

He has not forgotten their exchange outside the fortress all those months ago, but he has been unsure what to do with that information. He could have shared their conversation with the other Brothers, aware that such a revelation would be met with isolation at best and violence at worst.

But to reveal that would mean explaining how it had come up at all, and Altair is not sure he would be able to justify to his fellow assassins why he didn't thrash Malik himself for such presumption. Nor can he deny his interest – he can't bring himself to call it desire – in letting Malik continue where he left off, his hand so hot it would probably brand his skin.

They approach the bureau and Altair climbs up the alley wall with ease. He hastily looks down to offer help, but the _dai_ is already there, his ascent slow but steady until he pulls himself onto the roof. He flicks a glance at Altair, considers whether to mock him for his thoughtlessness but consoles himself that he is still considered capable, and his injury does not define him.

They each drop into the carpeted foyer and make their way into the main room, Malik moving behind the counter to resume working on his map of Jerusalem. Altair remains standing in front of him, communicating disdain of his surroundings when he should appear awkward and uncertain.

Malik lets him stew in silence until he feels sharp eyes resting on him. "See something you like?" he asks mockingly, remaining bent over his work.

"I am here at Al Mualim's behest," Altair states unnecessarily, deflecting the question. "You have a mission for me."

"So I do," Malik says slowly, looking up from the parchment in front of him. He lets his gaze drift from the hooded face, down the broad shoulders strapped with weapons, to the slim hips bearing an eagle-handled sword, and back up again. "But you did not answer my question."

Altair clenches his jaw before responding, "Like or dislike, it doesn't matter. There is only the Creed, and the next target."

"Ah," Malik breathes in satisfaction, "so _now_ there is only the Creed, eh?" His eyes narrow. "There was a time, not so long ago, that other things were more important. Impatience. Glory. Pride." He gestures to his left sleeve, and Altair flinches. "These things cost me dearly. So the least you could do is draw back your hood, look me in the eye, and give me an honest answer."

Altair steps up to the counter and slowly pushes the white cowl off of his head, revealing his troubled gaze as he considers the question. "I… do not _dislike_ what I see," he offers, his tone careful.

"Speaking in circles?" Malik shakes his head. "Such hesitation does not become you, _assassyun_." He leans over the counter to grasp Altair's chin in his hand, ignoring his weak sound of protest. He turns his head one way, then the other, searching behind those stoic features before pulling him into a kiss. Malik keeps control of it, his tongue coaxing Altair's lips open a fraction before the other man returns to his senses, his usual grace gone as he stumbles back.

"You -! You mean… to ruin me!" Altair chokes out. He raises his hand to wipe away the evidence of their kiss, but his touch lingers on his lips, telling Malik everything he needs to know.

"Yes, Altair, I will ruin you. I will sunder you from yourself, make you into someone you do not know, for a few moments. Enjoy the respite while you can." He watches the blood rise under Altair's skin, wonders if it is from shame or arousal, hopes that it is both.

"You sound as if you would be doing me a favor," Altair says gruffly to hide his disequilibrium.

"Do not worry, this is not a purely selfless gesture." Malik gives him a wolfish smile. Altair bristles, just as Malik knows he would, and draws himself up to his full height. Their eyes remain locked until a soft thump heralds the arrival of another assassin. Malik murmurs a greeting to the newcomer before turning back to Altair.

"There is a herald in the rich district of Jerusalem who curries favor for the Templars among the populace," he says briskly. "We also suspect he feeds them information about incoming shipments of weapons and armor. Find him and learn what you can." Here Malik lets some scorn into his voice. "You need not kill him, but I have no doubt that you will."

Altair stiffens, biting back some foul retort, and merely draws up his hood before stalking out of the room. Malik turns to the other assassin, calm even as he recognizes that Altair's return means his own downfall.


	5. Interlude II: Malik

Nothing seems real. Malik tries to find something to anchor himself to after the disaster at Solomon's Temple, but his mind is clouded. The memory of those first few weeks are filled with nothing but pain and grief and the temporary escape that the opium provides as the healers continue their work. Sometimes it's all he can do to make himself draw breath rather than drifting away into an endless sleep.

Still, he is young and strong, and his body has no intention of withering away despite what his heart may want. Too soon the healers declare he is safe to leave their ward, and he is cast out of the cocoon of solitude and drug-induced numbness he has come to know, if not enjoy.

The first day Malik walks out of his room to re-assemble his life is one of the most terrifying he has experienced. He has never had many friends, as prickly and sarcastic as he is, but at least he had the respect of his peers when he could hold his own against –

But he is not ready to even _think _that name.

He feels certain that no one will speak to him but everyone will be watching, pity and disgust in their eyes as he trudges towards Al Mualim's desk in the library. The Mentor is everything he needs right now – a familiar presence, offering praise for his success and reassurance for his loss – but he'll be damned if he can remember anything of that meeting beyond his new assignment: _rafiq _of Jerusalem.

Malik is still in a daze when he bumps into Omar on the way back to his quarters. He is about Malik's age, and they have been paired up as sparring partners and sent on missions together in the past. The other assassin looks far too pleased to see him, but he has always been easier with his words and smiles than Malik, so the newly appointed _dai_ chocks it up to his natural cheerfulness.

"Brother, it is good to see you released from the wards," he declares, placing a casual hand on Malik's right shoulder. "Are you well?"

_No I am not well,_ he wants to scream, _I will never be well_. Instead, he draws upon years of training in self-control to offer a brief nod. "I am fine, thank you, brother. I am off to prepare myself for my new position as _rafiq_ of Jerusalem."

Omar narrows his eyes in thought before another smile takes over his face. "Jerusalem! That is one of the more important bureaus in the region, is it not? The Master must think well of you indeed to assign you there! And at such a young age!"

Malik blinks: he had thought of his new post as just short of exile, to maintain the pretense that he has a role in the Brotherhood while keeping him out of harm's way. Omar's words have him reconsidering his status, and his expression lightens just a fraction.

"Come, I will help you prepare for your journey," Omar says briskly, using Malik's distracted state to lead them towards his quarters. He keeps up a steady stream of talk, updating Malik on the things he missed while he was recovering from his injuries. It is comforting, and Malik is too relieved at this feeling of normalcy to question the gaze that lingers too long on his face or the hand that grasps his own.

The two men reach Malik's quarters, and Malik will later attribute his inattention to Omar's unerring steps to residual exhaustion. He opens the door and Omar follows him, asking politely, "May I sit on your bed?" and waiting for his nod before doing so.

Malik moves about his room as Omar continues talking, gathering what few possessions he has and discovering the challenge of working with only one arm. It is not long before he is weary and his left shoulder has begun to ache. He too sits on the bed, wincing as he massages his stump.

Omar breaks off in the middle of a funny story about training the novices and exclaims, "Shit! I did not even notice you were in pain! Here, let me help you."

"No no, it is fine, please," Malik protests as Omar brushes his own hand out of the way and draws the shoulder of his _djeballa_ down to expose his wound. He has to bite his lip to stifle a sigh as deft, calloused hands touch his skin gently.

It has been many weeks since he has found release, and many months since his last visit to the women in the fortress garden. This is the first time he has felt such desire for another's touch that he is almost light-headed, and so he misses the calculating smile on Omar's face.

"Relax, Malik, it is only me. I will help you through this."

"Help me through wha-?" But his question is cut off as Omar leans forward and presses chapped, eager lips to his own.

Malik remembers to pull away after a few seconds, and tries to hide his yearning behind outrage. "Brother! What are you doing?" He holds him off with his remaining arm, trying to steady his voice.

"There is no need to dissemble, Malik," Omar says calmly. "I have seen the way you look at some of our brothers. Don't worry, you are quite subtle about it," he answers Malik's unspoken question. "It is the guilt on your face afterwards that gives you away."

Malik knows his silence will be taken as assent, but he cannot, for the life of him, come up with a suitable denial. His heart is hammering in his chest, fear and lust warring with each other. Omar leans forward again so that Malik ends up on his back, and covers the hand on his chest with his own. "I am not here to force myself on you, brother," he whispers as if gentling a wild animal. "Only to offer you a different _kind_ of relief."

"It is _haram_," Malik whispers automatically, even as he feels himself weakening. "Allah cannot permit it."

"Allah is love, is he not, Malik?" Omar asks rhetorically. "But how can that be? How can Allah be love, if he tells us that to lie with another man is a sin, but gives us these unnatural desires?" He runs that clever hand, warm and inviting, over Malik's chest and under his thin tunic to emphasize his point, and Malik shivers. "How can he be beauty, if he strikes down my sister – lovely and innocent – with leprosy so that she is forced to beg in the streets?""

"How can Allah be justice?" Malik adds quietly before he can stop himself, drawn into this blasphemy by his anger and this new comrade in sin. "How could he take Kadar from me – Kadar!" his voice breaks over the name, "Whose only crime was trusting me and looking up to that… that traitor!" He puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. "He trusted me, and Allah punished him for it."

"Yes, you see?" Omar lifts Malik's hand and presses a kiss to the palm before laving it with his tongue. "Can you bring yourself to worship a god who is so fickle, so cruel?" He captures Malik's lips in another kiss. "Do you believe that paradise awaits us at the end of our struggle?" He looks down at Malik and shakes his head slowly. "It does not."

"There is no paradise for assassins?" It is a struggle to form the words as Omar continues his sensual assault.

"No, _any_ of us. People, in general. There are no bountiful gardens, no virgins, no eternal joy. Whatever happiness, whatever pleasure you desire, you had best take it here, for there is nothing after this life but suffering, or emptiness."

"You paint a grim picture, brother," Malik says with a frown, even as he lets Omar push his robes aside, touching him where no other man ever has outside of his dreams.

"Better to face the truth with eyes open than to fool ourselves with a happy fantasy," Omar murmurs into the skin of his throat. "Besides, that still leaves the pleasure of today, does it not?" He bites and sucks the skin over his heartbeat, hard enough that Malik jerks upwards with a gasp. "And no one, not even Allah, can take that away from us."

He knows he is damned, for sins of violence, for betrayal of his own flesh and blood. With this latest transgression, _jahannam _is all he can look forward to. But it has been so long since he felt something other than anguish, that when Omar takes him in hand with a sure grip, he cannot feel sorry that his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

Later, when Omar is draped over him, panting into his ear as he buries himself within his yielding body, Malik forgets – for a moment – that his brother is dead, that he will never wield the hidden blade again, that he has no one he can trust but himself.

He lets this intensity of feeling overwhelm the thoughts that have plagued him since that fateful day, giving Omar everything he wants to just keep going. He knows he is being used, there is no true warmth in the other man's touch, so he feels no qualms about using him in return to escape his grief.

And since Allah – spiteful and devious – has clearly renounced Malik, he thinks it only fair to return the favor.

* * *

_jahannam - _hell


	6. Interlude II: Altair

Altair is a simple man. He has always known that, despite Malik's constant reminders. He needs only a target and a command, and his path is set. There is no need for remorse, no time wasted on niceties – his blade finds a home in the flesh of his mark, retracts just as quickly, and Altair takes flight for the next mission, the next target, the next success. It is hard to argue with his results, which is why most of the Brotherhood does not bother.

But Malik does.

He disapproves of Altair's methods, his attitude… his very _face_, if the scowl that deepens Malik's features at his presence is any indication. As far as his rival is concerned, every successful assassination is mired in a thousand failures, and it is his self-imposed responsibility to delineate them one by one for Altair's benefit.

"It is not that I believe myself to be perfect," he has said before. "I only seek to remind you that you are not either."

"I don't need your interference, Malik."

"Your actions indicate otherwise, novice."

It would be at this point in their earlier years that Altair would shove Malik, thereby ensuring a satisfying scuffle that will end with both of them bloodied but unbowed and assigned an extra set of unpleasant chores.

Over time, their fights become less frequent as they come to accept their roles in each other's lives. If Altair is Al Mualim's favored, then Malik is his chosen to keep Altair grounded and humble, for no other trainee is able to disarm him as readily. And if Malik falls into one of his black moods, full of brooding introspection, Altair can be counted on to break him out of it, through irritation or amusement, or some combination of the two.

For Malik is a complicated man. He had grown up observing some of the rituals and beliefs of Islam as his father Faheem had. While his blade has never faltered in the execution of his duty to the Assassins, the death of a fellow human being always lay heavily on him. Altair remembers the first time they were sent on a mission together: once he had claimed the life and stained the feather as proof, he leapt away to make for the rooftops, only to notice a space at his right hand that should have been filled with his rival's familiar, cantankerous presence. He looked back to see Malik crouched over the body, closing its unseeing eyes and murmuring a quick prayer for peace before darting away himself.

Whenever they work together, Altair seems the same ritual played out, and he has no doubt that Malik adheres to this practice even when he is alone. He stopped questioning the utility of it after their first and only argument on the subject, side by side on a bench shaded from the warm Damascus sun.

"What does it matter, Malik? He is an enemy of our cause, and the Creed demanded his death."

"No," Malik counters, "the Creed demanded nothing. Al Mualim, he who leads us and interprets the Creed, demanded it. We obey out of faith." He forestalls Altair's argument before it can leave his lips. "We trust Al Mualim not to lead us astray, not to call for the death of another lightly." He lifts an eyebrow in challenge. "What is that but another _kind_ of faith?"

"You think too much," Altair grumbles, and Malik chuckles a bit. "Things are more straightforward than you make them out to be."

"_No_," Malik refutes him again. "The Creed is a mass of contradictions." He ticks each point off on his fingers. "We use violence to promote peace. We oppose the Templars' demand for absolute obedience but expect it from ourselves. We say everything is permitted, but the Creed _itself_ is a list of rules we abide by."

Altair shrugs with a noncommittal sound. "I will leave it to the scholars to ponder these mysteries. I know what I must do."

"Take care, brother," he says with a somber expression. "The ability to obey but question, to live in darkness but bear the light, is what separates us from the Templars." Malik heaves a sigh. "To be an _assassyun_ is anything _but_ straightforward."

His thoughtful nature leaves him prone to a melancholy that Altair struggles to understand, so he falls back on his usual method to bring him out of it. "As you would have it, _ajooz_." He rises and holds out his arm as a support. "Let me help you back to your rocking chair, the other sages are no doubt worried you are lost."

Malik gives him a reluctant smile and shoves his arm away. "Idiot," he says without heat. "Only you would revel in ignorance." He stands up as well and the two walk back to the local bureau. "But one day," he bumps his shoulder against Altair's, "you will see that I'm right."

Altair does not doubt it, as Malik usually _is _right when it counts. "And on _that_ day," he responds with a retaliatory bump, "I know you will guide me through it."

If Malik's tendency to over-analyze is puzzling to Altair, the haunted look that suddenly covers Malik's face is downright mystifying. "Take care, Altair, with whom you trust," he echoes himself quietly. "Take great care."

It's not the first time that Malik has looked at him so, fear and intent mixed together. There is a darkness about him that has always intrigued Altair, a forbidden knowledge that lies just below the surface of those deep brown eyes.

But if there is one man he can trust, surely it is Malik, bound by the simple but inviolable words of the Creed and the teachings of Islam that have shaped him into the man he is now. His constant companion and rival, who tempers his brashness and mocks his bravado, who sees to the heart of things and speaks the truth.

Surely _Malik_ would never lead him astray.

* * *

_ajooz_ - old man


	7. Capitulation

Malik has been staring at the chess board for the past half an hour when he hears movement in the foyer. He has a moment to collect himself before the object of his thoughts appears, arrogant as ever and flushed with victory.

"The herald was indeed working for the Templars," Altair states without preamble, pulling his hood off. "He named several contacts in the city that I will seek out tomorrow." His words rush out of him, and Malik sees that same eagerness, that hunger for praise, from their time as novices.

"And was he treated fairly under the Creed?" Malik leans back in his seat to regard the other man.

"He was not an innocent," Altair responds obliquely. He is taking slow, deep breaths and his eyes are bright and unfocused as he relives the thrill of the hunt.

"And neither am I." Malik pushes his chair back from the small table and rises to his feet. He approaches Altair, who watches him with as much wariness as his distracted state will allow. "But you are, are you not, brother?" he says softly, knowingly. He tilts his head up at the taller man, watches his eyes flash with indignation – and something else.

"I don't know what you mean – " he protests in his haughtiest tone, and Malik has foreseen this as well. For some things do not change with time or rank; and he knows Altair cannot bear the thought that his rival knows something that he does not.

The flow of heated words stutters to a halt when Malik places his hand over the other man's heart. He can see memory bloom behind Altair's eyes, feels his pulse begin to race again.

"There is no shame in admitting ignorance, brother," he purrs, "only in doing nothing to correct it." He spreads his fingers as wide as they will go, and Altair draws in a shaky breath.

"He that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow," Altair murmurs as if he knows he should pull away. Instead he leans further into the touch, wanting those five points burned into his flesh.

"Little did I know I was consorting with a philosopher," Malik says lightly before growing serious. "Sometimes the knowledge outweighs the price."

"And that price is sorrow?"

"Damnation." Malik gives him a long, measuring look, then whispers, "But it is worth it."

This is not a challenge or a dare, nothing so base as that. Instead, he gambles on that odd streak of subservience, that reflexive obedience to authority, that Altair has yet to recognize in himself. Malik purses his lips: this lack of insight is dangerous, a weakness to be exploited – by Al Mualim, and now, by him.

He summons up his best impersonation of their Mentor – wise, reasoned, _certain_ that Altair will bend to his will – and says quietly, "You cannot escape this, but do not worry: it is nothing you cannot bear."

Altair tries to resist, he really does. But Malik's eyes are dark and deep as an oasis at night, and the warmth of that hand on his chest has been eclipsed by the heat pooling at the base of his spine, and damn it, he _has_ to know.

Malik draws his hand away to remove his _djellaba_, and Altair takes this as a cue to disrobe as well. It is almost laughable: for so long Malik has watched his rival ascend the ranks of the Brotherhood faster than any before him. And now, Altair is one step behind and trying to keep up.

Allah, it seems, is not without a sense of irony.

Malik looks over once he is down to nothing but his breeches to see Altair, similarly undressed, looking at the bracer strapped to his left wrist. There is clearly some hesitancy to part with it, but Malik has no intention of bedding an armed man. He is a sinner, not a fool.

"Keep your _shfrh mkhfyh_if you wish," he says magnanimously. "It will not save you."

The small clicks of the hidden blade being unclasped are amplified in the quiet room. Finally his rival, the focus of his unnatural hunger, stands bared before him. Surely Malik can be forgiven for striding forward to claim those scarred lips in a bruising kiss, his one strong arm grasping the back of Altair's head and holding him in place.

As before, Malik leads and he can feel Altair struggling to let him, suppressing the innate need to be in control. He rewards his prey by licking into his mouth and along his bottom lip, remembering the surprising jolt he himself felt the first time he was touched in this way.

Malik draws back to survey his handiwork – Altair's lips are glistening and parted with his shallow breaths, and a lovely blush has spread along the sharp planes of his face. Honestly, though, it is the lost look in his eyes that compels Malik to push him down with more force than necessary, and the assassin falls with yielding grace to the cushioned floor.

He can't quite remember the details as they wrestle their breeches off without breaking contact with each other. Altair responds to him with a cautious enthusiasm that makes Malik reckless, marking that lean body with frenzied touches and bites to commemorate this first and last time.

It is both unsettling and arousing to be in charge, to direct Altair with clear, quiet tones to lie back and part his legs. He had no idea what it would mean to have this proud man obeying _his_ commands with the same trust and precision granted their Master, and Malik is heady with it.

The _dai_ leans down to press a soft kiss to the inside of Altair's thigh as he coats his fingers with a viscous oil. The fingers that trail down his chest, resting momentarily on his heart, before gliding slickly in the crease between his groin and hip are gentle, unassuming. It would be easy to mistake that touch for affection, but Altair is not _that_ simple, regardless of what Malik says.

Altair tenses at the first touch at his entrance, visibly forcing himself to relax, his expression so open that Malik sucks in a breath as if he has been punched in the gut. It makes it all the more obvious that Altair – just this once – is innocent, free of responsibility. A wave of desperate longing washes over Malik: _So __**this**__ is the true cost of free will_

Altair is anything but delicate, and he would not appreciate being treated as such. So Malik waits until the paler man's breaths slow, and the tension around his mouth eases before proceeding to stretch him with two, then three fingers. As his breath hitches, Malik peers into his eyes, black pupils limned by amber, and he is the first to look away as he removes his fingers and presses his hardness against that tight, warm heat.

"Ah," Altair draws a quick breath that ends in a hiss, "Malik, it burns."

"Accustom yourself to that sensation," Malik struggles to keep his voice controlled as he advances gradually. "There is a special hell for men like us."

Altair rolls his eyes – is _now_ the time for theological discourse? "Do you mean assassins?" he gasps, the innocent tone at odds with his wanton posture.

"I actually meant those who do not perform a daily ablution," Malik grits out between panted breaths, "but it is true, our occupation does not help our cause."

Once he is completely seated in the other man, he cannot hold back a deep moan that could be mistaken for relief, and he wonders if Altair can tell, if those piercing eyes can go blank and find the truth. He thrusts, quick and shallow, until he hears Altair's harsh gasps and feels his altered hand curl around his hip, not resisting but asking for mercy that Malik is not inclined to grant.

Altair looks up, his features tightly controlled and teeth biting his lower lip to stifle those very sounds Malik aches to hear. So the _dai_ reaches beneath him to brace his hand against the small of Altair's back, changing the angle and lengthening his motion so that his next thrust gets a warmer reception.

"Oh," Altair sighs, lips wrapped around the soft exclamation in a way that sends a fresh spike of heat through Malik. It is a breathy sound full of wonder and longing, the sound of a man completely defenseless – and as dangerous as Altair is, even unarmed, Malik is caught off guard by how this stokes his lust even further. He waits for the hunger to fade as he continues his deep, smooth strokes, but Altair only wraps his legs around Malik's hips with more of those inviting sounds that make Malik feel he is burning alive.

_No!_ It is not supposed to be this way. He was to have had Altair, taken his pleasure, and be done. Done with this man, with such _haram_ thoughts, with a god who abandoned Malik that fateful day at Solomon's Temple. Instead he is met with nothing but unbound pleasure, and he thinks he will never again know betrayal so deep.

With every thrust he sinks deeper into this chasm of want and shame, so he tries to lose himself in the pliant body beneath his, letting the pleading sounds of the other man drown out the litany in his own head. If he just makes Altair groan loud enough, beg long enough, he can forget the misery he brings upon himself.

It is like trying to extinguish flame with saltpeter.

"Ah! Malik, I can't –" Altair's voice breaks on that word, as though he has never said it before. _Perhaps he never has_, Malik thinks uncharitably. He watches the other man writhe, his eyes glassy, almost feverish, and he smiles.

If this is what it means to be forsaken, Malik will savor it while he can, until the true gravity of it overwhelms him.

"No, Altair," he agrees readily, his words layered with dark promise. "But I can." He grasps Altair's member and tightens his hand to hide the tremble when he hears his name moaned like a prayer and profanity combined.

Altair is no stranger to pleasure – he has taken himself in hand plenty of times before – but he is amazed at the unfamiliar sounds pulled from him in a voice that he can barely recognize as his own. Malik's hand is relentless, twisting around him in a way that should have already been part of his own arsenal, and he feels both indebted to and resentful of the other man, even as he cries his release.

"Ah, ah, brother! I am undone!" Malik shivers as his own thoughts are echoed back to him in a defeated whimper so unlike Altair's usual calm baritone. His own voice raises into a wail as that virgin muscle tightens further, tearing his orgasm from him. He freezes as Altair drags his tongue over his scarred lips, and the sight of it draws Malik's release out a little longer, wringing him dry.

He gasps and just barely manages to brace himself on his arm so that he doesn't collapse. He looks down at Altair to see the blank mask he normally wears already in place, recognizes the time for honesty and vulnerability have passed, and he mourns the loss momentarily before withdrawing from the body beneath him and rolling to one side.

Beyond grabbing a nearby rag and wiping away the remnants of their coupling, Malik does not have much experience dealing with the aftermath of such trysts, so he lays back again and listens to their labored breathing fill the otherwise quiet bureau.

"That was…." Altair is still out of breath, and Malik takes pride in that.

"Worth it?" he smirks.

"Interesting," Altair allows. Malik rolls his eyes: as always he denies Malik his due. Another beat of silence, then: "Was it worth it to you?"

"What, having you moan my name like a whore?" Malik asks with vicious delight.

Altair, for once, is not goaded into repartee. "No. Giving up paradise."

"Paradise does not exist." Malik doesn't mean to sound so fatalistic, but he can't seem to help it.

"Then what happens after we die?"

"We fade away, or we are cast into _jahannam_ if our sins are irredeemable." The words fall from his lips like a lesson learned in another lifetime. "I am not sure which is worse: an eternity of suffering, or of nothingness." Malik rolls over to face Altair. "I suppose I am confronted by the same choice even now." He runs thoughtful fingers from Altair's brow to his firm jawline. "To be alone, or to embrace sin."

The moment stretches out, longer and longer, and still the resignation lingers in Malik's eyes as he traces the other man's features. Altair would have never imagined feeling uncomfortable with silence, but it finally becomes too oppressive for even him.

"So you have cast yourself into perdition for me?" Altair asks, hoping to coax a smile, or at least a cutting remark, from the other man.

But Malik looks at him steadily, futility deepening the lines of his face. "Such has been my fate since Allah turned his back on me."

_What a hellish existence_, Altair thinks to himself, throwing an arm over his face, _to reject the notion of paradise but be haunted by the certainty of damnation_. He closes his eyes as if in sleep and feels Malik rise to walk to the small window of his room, perching himself on the sill.

Altair regards Malik quietly as the other faces away from him, his head bowed and lips shaping the same silent words over and over again. Altair knows he is poorly equipped to provide comfort of any kind; when faced with his rival's spiritual crisis, he is paralyzed and only able to watch the _dai_ crumble from within.

Malik looks over from his perch to observe his rival, chest rising and falling steadily. Without his usual impassive stare, bathed in the faint illumination of the moon, he looks young, almost fragile. But unsullied.

The Flying One, this creature of light, cannot be brought low by Malik's sin. And he understands now that once is enough for Allah, but not for him.

* * *

_shfrh mkhfyh - _hidden blade


End file.
